


In A Jam

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Food, Jam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:29:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets John's name in a Secret Santa gift exchange, and comes up with the perfect gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Jam

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as part of the Sherlock Secret Santa gift exchange, for [merrykwanzaalovesanta](http://merrykwanzaalovesanta.tumblr.com/). I'm not the best deducer, so I got you the fandom equivalent of a cozy sweater: a cute johnlock fluff with some scheming Sherlock and kissing at the end. Hope it fits! 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my darling beta [Ray](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com).

“The party is tonight, Sherlock, have you gotten your gift yet?” John called out to Sherlock from the kitchen. Sherlock sighed heavily. He was draped across the couch in his dressing gown, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“Of course, John. I drew Molly’s name. I’ll be taking her out to coffee as her gift, since she’s always asking me to go with her when she offers to grab me a cup at the lab. No shopping required.” 

John stood in the doorway and stared at Sherlock with disbelief. “Not good, Sherlock. I’ll pick something up for her while I’m out. I drew Lestrade’s name, and I think I saw something in a shop across town that he’d love. Won’t hurt to add another gift to the list. Just--do not,” he pursed his lips and raised both eyebrows as he always did when Sherlock had amazed him in a bad way, “give Molly a coffee date as your Secret Santa gift to her. Really, Sherlock. Not good at all.” 

Shaking his head, John walked toward the door of the flat and pulled on his coat. “With these gifts to buy and the other errands I have to run I won’t be back until half past 6. Our party reservation is for 7pm at Angelo’s, so you’ll need to be ready to go by then. Think you can manage that?” 

“Honestly, John, I can manage that and a thousand more things. Go on, do your dull Christmas shopping.” 

An exasperated huff was John’s only reply as he closed the door and set off down the steps. Sherlock listened for the last of John’s footsteps before springing to life, phone in hand and a text already sent by the time he had reached the window to watch John walk away. 

Plenty of time, he thought to himself. His phone trilled an alert at him and he checked the screen. 

A text from an unknown number filled his screen: “On the way with items requested. Meet in usual spot for exchange?” 

“Yes. 10 minutes,” was his terse reply. Striding into his bedroom, Sherlock quickly shed his house clothes and pulled on trousers, a button down, and his coat before heading out the door. 

A few minutes’ walk from 221B a woman from his homeless network waited in front of a pub on Crawford Street. They had already met once to set up the exchange, and Sherlock had given her £50 to ensure that she’d have enough funds to procure the items he required. Judging from the sack in her hands, she’d had no problem. 

Grabbing the bag from her with little more than a nod, Sherlock slipped another £20 note into her hand and circled back around the block to head toward Baker Street. When he reached the flat he found himself bounding up the stairs, filled with excitement. 

The day’s activities promised the thrill of an experiment combined with the slow, satisfying pleasure of doing something that would earn John’s approval. Sherlock chuckled low to himself. Oh, John. You’re going to be surprised, he thought. 

Sherlock set the bag down on the kitchen table and began unpacking his spoils. The strawberries were on top, several cartons of lovely looking red berries that made up the bulk of the cost on the receipt. A bag of sugar, because while they kept a little in the flat for tea and coffee, Sherlock hadn’t been certain there’d be enough for his needs. Finally he pulled out a couple of lemons and a box of liquid pectin packets before reaching in to remove the small glass canning jars. 

***

When they drew names for Secret Santa, Sherlock watched each person write their name on a slip of paper and drop it into a hat. He memorized the creasing of John’s paper and determined where, approximately, it would have fallen into the hat. At that point it was easy to make a slight fuss about needing to draw a name before anyone else. Sherlock had reached his hand in, felt each slip of paper in spite of Lestrade’s exaggerated eye rolls, and had selected John’s name. 

Deducing what John would want was a bit more difficult. Sherlock quickly dismissed the obvious: a new jumper (he had plenty), a mystery novel (Sherlock banished the thought from his mind), a new phone (too pricey). Other things came to mind, but none of them felt quite right. 

Then the answer came to him over tea. John carried in two mugs and a plate with two slices of toast and a jar of bright red jam. “We’re out of biscuits,” John said, setting first the cups and then the plate on the table between them. Sherlock eyed the toast and jam suspiciously. 

“No butter for the toast?”

“No need for it, Sherlock!” John’s eyes twinkled with excitement as he unscrewed the lid from the jam jar. “This is the best strawberry jam you’ll ever taste. It’s made by a group of army veterans’ widows as a fundraiser every summer, and I buy at least 6 jars off of them.” He held the jar over his slice of toast and let a cascade of jam fall onto it before slathering it to the very edge of the bread. 

“You’ll try it, I hope?” John cast his eyes up at Sherlock as his hand moved closer to the very jammy toast that was between them. He wet his lips in the way that made Sherlock want to close his eyes or look away, a slight slip of his tongue from his mouth. “Of course, John. Just a bit.” 

John spread a much smaller quantity of jam over Sherlock’s piece of toast and held it up to him. Sherlock plucked the toast from John’s hand and then waited for him to pick up his own piece. Once they each had their toast in hand, they wasted no time in taking an actual bite.   
Sherlock expected the jam to be good and John’s reaction to be spectacular, so he payed only a modicum of attention to the flavor and texture of the jam itself and instead focused on John’s face. He was first struck by the slight smile that curved onto John’s lips as he bit into the toast, then wondered at the sound that John was emitting--a low, enraptured, “ohhhhhh,” that turned into a pleasantly humming “mmmmmmmm” as he chewed. A dot of jam remained at the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock observed his tongue peeking out to lick it away, then noticed the slow rolling of John’s eyes as the flavor of the jam filled his senses. 

At that point, Sherlock realized he should take a bite of his own toast. The jam was, in a word, transcendent. The strawberry flavor was bright and summery, with just a hint of vanilla to ground it and make it suitable for any season. It had clearly been thickened with a pectin, though Sherlock couldn’t quite tell if it had been a liquid or powdered or perhaps simply a bundle of lemon pips. In addition it had a fair amount of sugar and the juice of a couple of lemons to contribute to its brightness. Sherlock made a small sound of approval and then watched John more closely. 

This was the gift! The jam. John loved it and was probably getting low. It shouldn’t be hard to find this particular recipe, whether through clever searching or deduction or the harmless coercion of an elderly widow. A smile crept across Sherlock’s lips as he said, “oh, it’s lovely, John! May I try just a spot more?” 

*****

Uncovering the recipe hadn’t been easy, and Sherlock cringed at the number of times he’d been forced to sit through tea with one doddering granny after another, only to finally coax from her a recipe for Christmas biscuits or candied grapefruit peels. However, the woman with the jam recipe, Judy Barrow, had been a marvel of English womanhood, reminding Sherlock of his own Grandmother Holmes. Sitting in her Victorian style armchair with her short, silver-white hair glinting in the fading sun, she’d eyed him suspiciously from the start and had at first refused to even accept his fawning compliments, let alone be cowed by them. In the end, he’d come clean with her. 

“It’s for a friend. Not just any friend, my very best friend. I don’t really have any others, just the one. I detest sentiment, but John does not, and I’ve deduced that this jam would make him happier than any present I could purchase for him. I’ve tried to determine what makes your jam so perfect, but I’m afraid that Christmas will be here too soon for me to test my various theories. Will you share your recipe with me?”

Judy eyed him from behind her tea cup as she took the final sip. “Young man, I’ve never given my recipe out before,” her eyes twinkled slightly as she finished, “but I will now. I am old, but I’m no fool and I can see sincerity when it’s in front of my eyes. And besides, it pleases me to think of those old cows pining after my recipe when I’m gone, never to know it’s in the hands of the charming young man who has already tricked them out of the secret to their own recipes. You’ll need to follow it to the letter, dear, because I’m reducing the usual quantities and it must be precise.” 

“I assure you, madam, that I am nothing if not extremely careful when carrying out experiments, which is how I intend to approach this little project,” Sherlock replied with a pleased smile forming on his lips. 

“You must tell me how it goes, young man. I hope your John loves it as much as my Henry did when I’d make it for him,” Judy looked away for a moment, then turned her eyes back to Sherlock. “Now to write it all down for you and send you on your way. Christmas is coming, after all, and you’ll need to make sure you have everything necessary before the big party.” 

Drawing a pen and notepad from the side table near her chair, she scrawled out instructions and the recipe in a neat, spidery script while Sherlock watched over her shoulder. When she had finished, he took it from her and folded it into his pocket before thanking her with a light squeeze of her shoulder and a significant glance. When she wished him a Merry Christmas, he returned the sentiment almost without thinking, so great was his excitement at being one step closer to giving John the perfect present. 

***  
After procuring the recipe, Sherlock set to work making the plan come together that would allow him to get the ingredients to 221B and make the jam itself without John ever being the wiser. That’s where the homeless network had come in, as well as a bit of needling to find out when exactly John would be shopping. 

So far, things were going perfectly. It was nearing 5pm and the jam was just beginning to warm on the stove top. A second pot held jars that rattled slightly in the boiling water that would sanitize them for the canning process. Sherlock checked the recipe again and adjusted the gas a bit higher. The jam looked close to boiling, and he eyed it waiting for the exact moment that it would turn from a lightly bubbling red soup into a frothing mixture of sweet strawberry delight. 

His phone’s text alert distracted him momentarily, and he snatched his phone off the table quickly to see who or what could be bothering him at this crucial moment in the jam making process. It was Lestrade, and the text mentioned a case that had just come up. Sherlock rolled his eyes and fired back a quick response: “Busy. Available tomorrow. -SH”

The phone rang almost immediately after he had sent the text, and so he answered immediately and with a curt, “No,” in the hopes of ending a conversation with Lestrade before it would even begin. John’s voice on the other end actually came as quite a surprise.

“No what, Sherlock?” John asked with no small amount of cheek in his voice. “Did you think I was Mycroft calling for an invitation to our Christmas party?” 

“No, John, certainly not. Lestrade was asking about a case and I simply told him I didn’t have an interest in one for this evening.” 

“No interest at all? Nice change from earlier today when you seemed to have no interest in the holiday at all. Which reminds me, I’m just leaving the Tesco with a couple of things and should be home in a few minutes. I found a lovely scarf for you to give to Molly, a really nice red that should work for her.”

It took a moment for John’s words to register with Sherlock, but as soon as they did the detective immediately sprang to action. “Oh, a scarf John? I’d have thought Molly more of a hat person. Do go back and fetch a hat instead.” He began pacing the kitchen, trying to think of the next gambit to try when John inevitably turned that task down. 

“Go back across town and pick up a hat for your Secret Santa gift for Molly? You have to be joking, Sherlock.” 

“Ah, no. Well then. The very least you can do is go back to Tesco’s then. I’ve used all of our tea in an experiment today, and it wouldn’t do to be without tea. Of course once you’re there, I’ll need the name of every type of tea that they carry, preferably via text message, so that I can cross-reference them with the ones I’ve used today.” 

John sighed. “I’m nearly home now, Sherlock. In fact I can see the door to the flat. I’m not going back out. and if I did I’d not waste my time texting you the tea selection of a Tesco’s. Hanging up now, Sherlock. Be up in a moment.” 

Sherlock heard John’s key in the door downstairs and turned around to see what he might be able to do with the jam to keep it out of sight when John arrived. The sight that greeted him was an unfortunate one. During his conversation with John, the jam had come to a boil and promptly began foaming and frothing like mad, and was currently spilling over the sides of the pot and meeting with the flames, where it caused the gas fire to roar up slightly. Sherlock grabbed at the spoon he’d laid out by the pot only to realize that its metal handle had gotten dreadfully hot. He yelped in pain but stirred anyway, hoping to cause the foaming to subside. 

Meanwhile John was just outside the flat, trying in vain to unlock the door while juggling what sounded like no fewer than 4 large shopping bags. He called out for Sherlock to open the door, but Sherlock only called out, “otherwise engaged right now, John, you’ll have to manage on your own.” 

Just then a large bubble of jam burst and dotted Sherlock’s hand with molten hot jam. He let out a cry just as John opened the door. “Owww, ohhh John! You’re home.” 

That was enough to have John setting the packages down a bit too hard and striding quickly into the kitchen. “Sherlock, what’s going on? Are you hurt?” He looked around, confused at first and then mildly disgusted. “Is that blood on the stove, Sherlock? And in one of our good pots, too.” 

“No, John,” Sherlock replied, bringing his burned thumb to his mouth to suck the jam off and try to soothe the sting, “if you must know it’s your gift. Jam. Though it’s ruined now, I think.” Sherlock eyed the pot with disdain as he turned the burner off. The red bubbles and foam died down, leaving a sticky residue covering the pot and part of its handle as well as the area around the burner. Sherlock turned the sanitizing pot off as well, then turned to John with a sigh.

“You weren’t supposed to be home for at least another hour. I followed the instructions perfectly, and now it’s ruined.” Sherlock realized that he sounded not unlike a petulant child at the moment, but failure was easily top among his least favorite things, and his jam appeared to be an utter failure. He looked at John and was surprised to see a grin on his flatmate’s face. 

“You made me jam?” John chuckled lightly and moved closer to Sherlock, reaching beside him to grab a spoon. “Shall we taste it, then?” 

“But it’s ruined. It’s a mess, and besides it hardly cooked at all. The recipe calls for 15-20 minutes at a boil. It did all of this,” he gestured toward the stove, “in 5.” 

“Still, should taste alright. Here, let me.” It wasn’t often that John and Sherlock touched, but at the moment John moved close enough to grab lightly onto Sherlock’s hand and move him aside from the jam pot. He kept his hand on Sherlock’s as he dipped the spoon gingerly into the hot strawberry mixture and brought it up toward his mouth, blowing on it gently. Cocking his head up slightly, he looked Sherlock in the eyes and said, “you first.” 

The spoon was warm and the jam almost too hot to eat, but Sherlock took it nonetheless. Oh, it was just as he remembered from the other day! The sweetness, the acid, the homey comfort that bound it all together. A slight groan of appreciation fell from his lips. 

“Oh, you try it now! I did it, John, I made your jam,” Sherlock crowed with delight. John smiled back and licked the remainder of the jam from the spoon. “You did indeed, Sherlock. It’s very good.” 

John still held Sherlock’s hand, and his thumb rubbed light circles all along the back of it. “Should we have another bite, Sherlock?” he asked, licking his lips and raising his eyebrows just slightly. 

Sherlock nodded as John dipped the spoon in and brought more jam to his lips, blowing it cool again. “I’ll go first this time,” John said. A bit of jam clung to his lower lip and Sherlock found himself unconsciously licking his own and leaning down toward John just so. “John, you have a bit on your lip, just there,” Sherlock licked his lower lip very deliberately now. 

“That right?” John asked. He raised just one eyebrow at Sherlock and looked at him expectantly as he raised the spoon to Sherlock’s mouth. “Here, you should have yours then.” Sherlock took the jam from the spoon but felt a single trickle fall from his mouth and cling to his lip. Though he couldn’t see it, judging from how the dab on John’s lips looked he knew that the actual droplet that clung to him must look downright obscene. John released Sherlock’s hand and brought his own to the detective’s lips. 

“Looks like you have a bit. Just right here,” he said as he dragged his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s lip. Before he could move it away, Sherlock licked the jam from John’s hand with a gentle flick of his tongue. “We shouldn’t waste it, John. It’s your present,” he replied, lowering himself to meet John’s mouth. 

Their first kiss, standing in the kitchen, was strawberry sweet and sticky. The second and third kisses, which followed soon after, were less strawberry and more warm body heat. Sherlock found that John tasted of milky tea and the smell of the sky just before snow, both of which went rather nicely with the faint haze of strawberry and lemon and vanilla bean that played at the edge of his senses. 

They were pulled from their reverie by the buzz of John’s phone. It was a message from Lestrade letting them know he’d be arriving late and they shouldn’t hold the reservation on his account. John stepped back to answer it quickly, then sighed when he noticed the time. “Party will be starting soon, we should get this cleaned up so we can go. But I don’t think it’s a failure after all, is it?” 

“Not hardly, John. You were certainly surprised, and it would seem that you like your gift,” Sherlock smiled one of his truly genuine smiles, the oddly slanted half-grin that he’d never been able to practice or replicate without genuine emotion overcoming him first. 

“And everything that comes with it, Sherlock,” John replied. “Happy Christmas.”


End file.
